


they'll fill my body with flames

by idaate



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Emetophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, alternative universe, mentioned animal death, very much in passing but its still there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: But, Saihara thinks as he sits next to Ouma as he starts the truck, Saihara himself is probably the reason that they’re only going through near-death experiences and not actual-death experiences. The thought is off-putting enough that Saihara shoves it to the back of his mind and tries to pretend it didn’t exist at all.(Is Ouma dying? Ouma could be dying.)-Ouma and Saihara walk along the highway at two forty-three in the morning.





	they'll fill my body with flames

+

 _i don’t want to go to sleep_  
_and_ _i_ _don’t_ _want_ _to_ _dream_  
_on a table or on the floor_  
_in a car outside at night in the snow_  
\- Teen Suicide, “We Found Two Dead Swans And Filled Their Bodies With Flowers”

+

Ouma is a person that, despite his small stature, takes up the whole room. His personality is as giant as he is tiny, though anyone who would dare bring up the fact that Ouma isn’t the six feet guy he carries himself like is sure to get whiplashed by a volley of smart-ass remarks that Ouma’s certainly known for.

But the side of the highway at two forty-three isn’t a room. It’s the place out of sight, out of mind, because the darkness on the side is far darker when the lights of the road streak by screaming. Saihara’s fairly certain that if he hadn’t hung the reflective vest over Ouma’s shoulders, he wouldn’t see the boy at all, even though he was standing a few feet in front of him.

He’s certain, in fact; the first time Ouma had texted him and asked him to come over, he’d had to hold onto the ends of Ouma’s too large jacket (not touching him, never touching him) in order to make sure that he didn’t. Disappear.

Tonight it’s the middle of summer, where the nights are so hot that you’re kicking your sheets off but you don’t want to knock them all off in fear that demons will reach out and eat away at your feet. Saihara finds Ouma sitting on the steps outside his apartment complex eight minutes after he received the text, phone still glowing in hand as he had jogged three blocks over.

Ouma’s got a pair of sweatpants on, the left leg poorly embroidered by hand with a horse and the right leg with a hole round the knee. He’s got a tank top flipped inside out, the tag hanging right under his chin and his binder peeking out from the holes of his sleeves, and a pair of mismatched flip flops with toes covered in chipped nail polish completes the look.

Momota had once pointed out with a half-full mouth that Ouma’s clothes looked like he had scrounged them out from the garbage, and as thinly as Saihara had pressed his mouth at the comment, he hadn’t exactly been able to refute it, either.

“Saihara-chaaan!” Ouma singsongs as Saihara slows to a walk, breathing heavier than he would like to admit from a simple jog. “I was starting to get worried that my knight in shining armor had finally had enough and wasn’t coming at all. You didn’t even respond to my text!” Even though it’s so dark out, Saihara can make out the shadows of Ouma’s pouting expression.

“I- I didn’t?” Saihara heaves and checks his phone. Indeed, although he had composed a message, he had neglected to actually press send in his rush. “I’m sorry, Ouma-kun.”

“Mm, it’s allll good n’ stuff. You’re lucky I love you.” Ouma hops up, reaching his hands to the sky as he yawns exaggeratedly. Saihara tosses over the reflective jacket that he had had in his hand, identical in size and color to the one he himself was wearing at the moment. Ouma catches it and shrugs it on, muttering something about how uncomfortable and ugly it is, but at least Saihara doesn’t have to convince him to put it on anymore.

Without another word, Ouma pulls out a ring of keys from the pockets of his sweatpants, twirling it around his pointer finger as he whistles to a tune that only he knows.

Ouma drives a navy colored pickup truck - something that’s almost comical in comparison to Ouma himself. A literal clown car would feel more fitting than the mud-caked and rugged vehicle that Ouma owns instead.

Simply put, though, Ouma doesn’t own or drive a clown car, instead sitting in the front seat on a booster and pointing his toes to try and hit the brakes when needed--which according to Ouma, unfortunately, is less often than should probably be necessarily. Saihara’s earned quite a few grey hairs from Ouma speeding through red lights and swerving past buildings, getting more used to the near-death occurrences than anyone probably should.

But, Saihara thinks as he sits next to Ouma as he starts the truck, Saihara himself is probably the reason that they’re only going through near-death experiences and not actual-death experiences. The thought is off-putting enough that Saihara shoves it to the back of his mind and tries to pretend it didn’t exist at all.

Ouma slides in one of those little tapes like they’re in the 90s and music begins blasting out of the car’s speakers, something foreign and English that Saihara can only grasp at understanding from high school classes. Ouma’s mouthing along to the words, though, fingers tapping away at the steering wheel as he makes a sharp turn off of the street and right onto the highway. The pair of foam dice hanging from the car’s mirror jangle precariously, threatening to snap off their strings.

It’s the same song over and over (saihara counts eleven plays) before Ouma veers sharply off the road, into the breakdown lane and then slamming on the brakes. Due to his height, however, the ‘slamming’ is far less any sort of actual slamming and far more a gentle decrease of speed till they roll to a stop.

Ouma’s out in a second, pulling the keys out violently and thrusting them back into his pocket as the song sputters to a stop. His flip flops make slapping noises against the asphalt, sounds that would normally be comical but just make Saihara wince now. Saihara’s a little slower getting out, closing the door that Ouma neglected to and trailing after Ouma’s flashing jacket after he’s made sure that the truck is locked and not in immediate danger of getting towed.

There aren’t many cars out at two forty-three in the morning, but there are still some. They flash by, their lights shining on Ouma’s blank, blank, blank face as he snaps at a hair tie around his wrist.

Huh. The hair tie was new.

Ouma’s got eyes that burn purple normally. The hottest flames are blue, and colder ones are red, so blue and red have to make purple somewhere in the middle, fire that burns so hot it’s cold or vice versa. Saihara’s afraid of reaching too close, sometimes, but he’s drawn to Ouma like a moth to a flame nonetheless. God knows no one else is.

But on nights like this, the lights that Ouma could suffocate without even trying are putting him out instead. Maybe it’s the way the shadows fall or the greasy bangs that stick to Ouma’s forehead, but the motions that had seemed so lifelike and animated in the daytime - rocking back and forth on his heels, throwing his arms behind his head - now just feel...hollow. Like Ouma’s dying.

Is Ouma dying?

Ouma could be dying.

“Ouma-kun,” says Saihara, and Ouma looks up, lips quirked. They don’t talk on nights like these, but here Saihara is, talking nonetheless.

“Mm?”

Saihara inhales shakily. “Why-” His voice cracks over such a simple word and he has to swallow, moisten up his throat, try once more. “Why are you... _doing_ this?”

“Aw, am I not allowed to spend time with my beloved Saihara-chan?” Ouma’s lips pucker up as he turns. “And here I thought you were enjoying these late night excursions...they’re so sneaky and fun and naughty, you know? Doesn’t this fill you up with a sense of,” Ouma motions towards his chest and breathes in, as if he’s sniffing at fine food, “ _adventure_? Excitement? Any of that?”

“Ouma-kun,” says Saihara more firmly, “this...this isn’t normal, and you’re aware of this, right? Most people don’t hang out by the highway like this, at these times of night.” He bites his lip. “It’s dangerous.”

The lights roll in Ouma’s eyes. “That’s the thing about you,” he says, “you’re not content to just let mysteries be mysteries. There are people out there who kill people like you! Sticking your noses where you shouldn’t….it’s super dangerous! I’m worried for you.” Ouma clicks his tongue.

“I don’t really think you’re one to talk,” says Saihara.

Ouma’s lips purse and he turns back towards the road, not looking at Saihara. “Well, then,” he says, “if you must know, it’s a fun little game, I guess.”

“A-” Saihara inhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is a game for you, Ouma-kun?”

“A fun little one!” Ouma chirps. “Hey hey, Saihara-chan, have you ever heard of leaving death up to chance?”

Saihara’s seen Ouma cradle a dying bird up to his chest and try to patch it up, try to breathe life back into it once more. Saihara’s seen Ouma try not to gag as they cross the street with fingers entwined and find ants crawling out of the stomach of a cat corpse, letting it give birth one last time. There are things that Ouma doesn’t let touch him, but death has never been one of those things.

He purses his lips. “Is that what’s going on here, then? You’re leaving death up to chance.”

“Iiiin a sense! Ish. Call it an experiment, if you will.” Ouma flips his hands to the side in a grand flourish. “You’re so in love with mysteries, can’t you figure it out yourself?”

“It’s a simple question,” says Saihara.

“Simple questions plead for complicated answers!”

Saihara sighs deeper, pulling his arms closer around his frame. “So why am I here, then?”

“So I can look at your beautiful face?”

“Why is that a question?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Do you even- Do you even want me here?”

“Sure!” Ouma nods to himself, stroking his chin and shuddering in the air. “You’re just here so that no one can rule my maybe accidental chance death as a suicide. Since I’d never ever do something like _that_ but, ugh.” He rolls his eyes. “You know how it is.”

“As a suicide- Ouma-kun, what about this isn’t something that lends itself to be called a suicide?” Saihara frowns. “Leaving death up to chance in the way you’re doing it, tempting it, that’s...that’s not exactly something that screams not suicide!”

“I’m not hanging myself or swallowing any pills, jeez.” Ouma rolls his eyes. “Or jumping into the highway. I’m even wearing this disgusting reflective jacket.” Ouma lifts his arms to the side, glaring at the article of clothing as if it were a sin. “No one’s gonna hit me when I stick out like such a sore thumb.”

“A jacket I gave you,” Saihara points out. “You weren’t wearing anything that first time. I don’t know how many times you went out without me, either, but I highly doubt that you were wearing anything reflective those times, either.”

Ouma gasps exaggeratedly, a sound that’s as out of place at this time of night as he is. “Saihara-chan! I don’t know what sort of person you take me for, but I don’t just walk around in my birthday suit all the time, you know!”

“Ouma-kun,” says Saihara, “you know what I mean.” A pause. “And please don’t change the topic.”

Another car whizzes by, dangerously close to veering off the road into the breakdown lane. Saihara tenses up. Ouma doesn’t.

“I think,” Ouma says slowly, “Saihara-chan should mind his own business or he should leave me alone.”

Saihara’s lips purse further. Ouma’s cheeks are shining, something that was hard to tell beforehand with the constantly changing and poor lighting, but they’re shining nonetheless like porcelain.

Ouma stares Saihara right in the eyes until he doesn’t, turning back towards the road and rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet, putting his hands behind his head but letting them fall back again, uncertainty dragging his movements. Ouma looks so blatantly vulnerable in this instant that Saihara, in his sleep addled mind, wonders if it was even real.

“Is anything really real?” says Ouma, and Saihara startles as he realizes he said the last bit aloud. Man, was he edgy. “We’re all just atoms, after all! A bunch of atoms and a bunch of chemical reactions. If you take away those chemical reactions, well then.” He blows out his cheeks and curls his fingers outwards. “We’re all gone.”

Ouma looks at Saihara out of the corner of his eye, gauging a reaction, before letting out a bark of laughter. “I stole that bit from a video game,” he says. “You like it? I think it sounds philosopher-y or whatever. Angie-chan’d probably hate it.”

“It’s certainly a bit,” says Saihara. “You could’ve fooled me and said you came up with it yourself.”

“Could’ve fooled you,” muses Ouma, rolling his tongue around his cheek. “Huh. A first.”

The night air, hot as it is, prickles goosebumps Saihara’s legs, bare from the knee down. He breathes out and shakes one leg out, then the other. More and more and more cars go by (sixty-one if saihara was counting, but he wasn’t) and Ouma’s hands shake by his side.

“Do you...want to go and get something?” says Saihara when he checks his watch. It’s almost four already. That’s how these excursions usually end, with Ouma in the passenger’s seat and sipping at some fancy coffee with twice as much sugar as they usually put, ignoring the ‘CAUTION: HOT’ label blatantly. It’s not unpleasant, which is something to be said.

“Sure,” says Ouma, and then, “actually, wait a sec, Saihara-chan!”

Saihara’s fine with waiting, and he pulls his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and watches Ouma lean down, moseying around on the ground and patting things down. He finds whatever it is he’s looking for soon enough, standing up with it held close to his chest.

It takes a little too long for Saihara to realize what he’s doing.

“Ouma-kun!” Saihara shouts, grabbing Ouma’s arms, but it’s too late - the stone has left Ouma’s hands and it tumbles down, down, missing its mark but still landing audibly against the asphalt. Another car whizzes by. Ouma breaks out laughing. Saihara has to restrain himself.

“You can’t- You can’t just do that, alright?” he says slowly, patiently, trying not to say anything he’ll regret.

“Well, you know what they say.” Ouma shrugs. “If the witch won’t burn, right?”

He’s not talking about the cars.

It feels sick, like Ouma wants to write an apology to the whole world and burn it and burn himself like a witch but for all that he burns he can never learn, but maybe the world will be happier that way. Maybe someone else will be happier with Ouma being miserable, maybe Ouma really believes that, maybe Ouma just wants to die. Maybe he wants someone to say that he can. Maybe he wants someone to say that he should.

Saihara says, “Ouma-kun-”

Ouma smiles, leans over, and empties his guts on the side of the road.

His reflective jacket is slipping, almost in the way of the mess, but Saihara doesn’t reach out and touch him, doesn’t make sure he doesn’t disappear.

Sometimes Ouma feels best when he can pretend he never existed at all.


End file.
